Relations and Revelations
by SassaM
Summary: A coin and a stranger lead Castle to an unexpected discovery. Three-parter set somewhere in Season 4 before 'Linchpin'.
1. Chapter 1

**Relations and Revelations**

All the usual disclaimers apply: I do not - not even intend to - make money with this.

**Part 1**

A glint just a few feet from me catches my attention. Something is reflecting the first rays of sunlight as dawn struggles to usher the twilight out of New York's streets. Nearly magnetically drawn, I step closer to it and before I know it, my knees have bent and I already grab the shiny object only to discover that it is a coin. A strange coin though. I flip it between my fingers. It seems to be old, it's not perfectly round, and its edges are smoothed down by all the hands it must have passed through. But its surface almost looks polished, silvery shining and the depicted figure stands out sharply as though it had only been coined yesterday. The image is oddly familiar, even though I can't tell what or better who it is showing. I lift the metal piece a little closer to my eyes to get a better look at the letters and try to decipher what is written on it. It's Greek.

"Glad you made it," a male voice startles me from the examination. "Finally," he adds, almost sighing. Considering the time of day and the deserted sidewalk, it doesn't take me long to understand that I'm the one being addressed. When I look up from the coin and turn, I see a young man dressed in beige shorts and an equally beige short-sleeved shirt, a baseball cap with logo completing the UPS driver's uniform and mostly shielding his eyes from my view. He smiles at me. Why is he smiling at me? And who does he believe me to be? His words echo in my ears. He was addressing me as though he had been waiting for me. He's clearly mistaken me for someone else. But the smile he gives me is now accompanied by expectantly raised eyebrows. He is obviously waiting for some kind of response.

"Pardon me?" I ask. He has to see now that I'm not the one he's looking for. This actually gets me thinking who he might be awaiting. And what might he be doing here. Maybe he isn't really a UPS driver but a foreign – yet obviously perfectly capable of the typical New Yorker pronunciation, as a part of my brain remarks – spy in the middle of an exchange mission I stumbled into. Or he's…

"Richard," he immediately snaps me from conjuring up another wild story by calling me by my first name. A shiver runs down my spine. I carefully retreat some steps, bringing a little more distance between the two of us. All the while I keep my eyes trained on him. How does he know my name? Wait a minute, why shouldn't he? Maybe he recognized me from my books. Or, from the latest picture on page 6. Yes, that's definitely the reason he knows my name. And no, it doesn't bother me or make me nervous that he didn't pick the usual 'Mr. Castle' to start a conversation. It's just a little strange, weird maybe, but nothing to worry about, is it? He's just a fan. Probably. The polite smile that had fallen from my face reclaims its space, widens even. My gaze is pulled to the object he's holding in his outstretched palm.

"Can you sign here please," he says as he points towards the paper, and produces a pen from his front pocket and hands it to me. For a moment I only stare at it. Maybe he simply wants an autograph. Picked me out on the streets, stopped his truck and decided to get one for his sister or girlfriend. I'm pretty sure that's the story he'll tell if I asked about it. For some reasons, male fans often do not admit to it. I allow my confidence to return. It still feels odd. Something is very off here. I peer out of the corner of my eyes to check my surroundings. We are the only ones on this street. I already knew before that there weren't many people around, but there had to at least be somebody passing by, anybody. I hesitantly take the clip board from the stranger, planting the first letters on the paper as I recognize it to be a delivery form. I can't contain the smile that creeps onto my lips then while my hand automatically completes the signature in the manner it's been trained to.

"Here you are," I gather my charm and look into his eyes when I hand the board back to him, precariously balancing the pen on top of it. His eyes are bright blue, I manage to notice. And an uneasy feeling unfurls in my gut when I catch sight of the mischievous spark blinking in them but suddenly my attention gets drawn to the form again, to the text on the form to be precise. That can't be true, can it? I rub my eyes as he turns around, getting into the truck parked at the curb. I must be imagining things, but I could have sworn the text on that form wasn't English but Greek. Again. Greek. Just like the coin. My fingers feel for it in the depths of my right pocket where I'd let it slide in just moments earlier. There it is. The cold metal immediately warms from my touch. What a strange coincidence.

"So," the stranger stretches the word to last all the while he is turning around to me. "This is yours then," he adds as he hands me a brownish package. My name is written on it in bold letters. What's this? I carefully weigh it in my hands. All I can tell is that it is neither small nor large, and quite solid. No loosely tingling cords or pieces in there. I listen closely, but it doesn't seem to create any noise. No ticking then, either. It is only when I let a fresh wave of air fill my lungs that I realize that I've been holding my breath.

"What is it?" I question, not daring to open it. Even if it says Richard A. Rodgers on it. Wait a minute. Especially not _because_ it says Richard A. Rodgers actually. I stare down at the writing. Really, there it is. My birth name, the name I haven't used in ages. If I weren't confused before, I most definitely would be now.

"My present," a soft smile crosses the other man's expression when he answers my question, without actually helping me to understand what's going on. "Although you're awfully late to collect it." The soft expression is replaced by a frown now. What? That's it? All I get is another riddle instead of an answer that would actually make sense? It doesn't help to explain why a truck driver stops in the early morning on some random street that no-one could have predicted to be my whereabouts at that time beforehand, to deliver a package addressed to me, no sender shown anywhere, and only my birth name for recipient.

I gaze down at the package and feather my fingers over the letters. It feels real, and right somehow too, just to add to the strange situation. It may be safe to open it after all. It's not a bomb, isn't it? But who knows, maybe there's Anthrax or some other deadly virus in there to poison me or turn me into patient zero, taking down half of the world with me. But who would be interested to assault me in that way? Although Gina would be pleased because you could be absolutely sure that kind of death would raise book sales to unknown heights, at least until potential readers started dying because of the epidemic. I nearly catch me rolling my eyes at myself.

He's waiting. Although I'm still warily eying the package in my hands, I'm aware of the fact that the driver hasn't moved since he handed it to me. He is simply waiting and watching me. He should get back to his truck and just drive off to deliver the rest of his freight. Apparently, he won't leave before I open it. That should actually set off a couple of alarms in my head, but my hands act without permission anyway. The left pointer finger digs down below the folded triangle that closes the wrapping on one side of the parcel. The material tugs on my finger and it struggles to pull the paper off, freeing part of the 'present'. It's easier on the opposite side. I take my time while I wait for the driver to disappear, but he refuses to do me the favor, and keeps watching. What is he waiting for? And why do I let myself be pressured by his gaze? Maybe I should just take the half-opened parcel and walk away myself.

I take a deep breath before I rip off the paper in one go, only to reveal a colorful book cover. The silhouette of a person with spread feathery wings against a bright orange sun illustrates the title of the children's books on Greek Myths. Uhm? Even when I turn the book around and flip it open, I can't find anything that would tell me about the person who'd sent it or a hint as to why. My gaze shifts to the delivery guy with what I guess is a puzzled look plastered on my face. He, on the other hand, seems to be finally satisfied, greets me with a nod and turns around then. I still don't have a clue what is or was happening here.

"Wait!" I call out to get his attention before he climbs into the truck. The wrapping has glided down to the ground without making any noise, but my hand still keeps tight hold of the book. "Who are you?" This is anything but your usual delivery situation. I at least want to know who that weird guy is. His glowing features turn into a smirk. My head tilts on its own accord as I try to understand why I believe him to glow. People don't glow. At least they shouldn't. It's definitely only my overactive imagination that makes me see a UPS delivery driver radiate light. What have I done before coming here? Maybe I hit my head and now I'm seeing things. I should ask Lanie and let her check me over.

"Well, Richard, I'd thought you'd never ask." Or it's some kind of drug. Maybe I got poisoned and now I'm experiencing a very weird trip. But it's nothing I've tried before. So yeah, Lanie definitely needs to be the next stop on my way.

"Aw, I'm actually a little offended you don't recognize me," the UPS guy states and indicates the amount of offence he claims me to be causing him, in the little space he holds his pointer finger and thumb apart as he gestures with his left hand. He squints a little bit in feigned disapproval for a moment, and adds a disappointed shake of his head to it.

Then he is suddenly only smiling in a friendly way as he walks up to me. But really, that smile especially seems to creep me out. Should I know him? Is he maybe some perp we'd arrested before? At least he isn't Tyson; I'm sure about that. I'd recognize that guy, wouldn't I? Only now, I come to realize how careless my actions were. Really. I'm so stupid. He was already gone until I made him come back. I should have just let him go. But no, I had to ask for his identity. There's probably no text book on eerie encounters with strangers in a lonely street that suggests to keep pushing them to tell you something; definitely not. It's not the cleverest thing to do that's for sure. Oh my god, how much would I have freaked out if someone told me Alexis had acted that way. Luckily, she's way too sensible to commit asininities like this one. Maybe I should talk that through with her when I get home, just in case.

The best thing to do now was to start for a slow but steady retreat. He's still smiling and even though it doesn't feel intimidating at all, I'm pretty sure I need to pull back now. I can't imagine what it would do to Beckett if her partner was found murdered – stabbed, with my luck - in a lonely street by some madman in shorts only because of overstepping out of curiosity. I have to get away now. But it doesn't work. Why won't my legs move? Don't panic! It's nothing. There surely is a very good reason why I can't move in a situation that I should get as far away from as possible.

Only I come up empty, and now the guy is almost there, stops one arm length in front of me. I barely manage to tell myself to not stare at him wide-eyed like some deer in the headlights. I should try and leave a message for Beckett. 'Sorry, I confessed my feelings for you when you couldn't remember it, and then got killed because of my own stupidity before I manned up to tell you again.' That would be a good start. A little long though. Maybe I should settle for 'sorry'. Now I only needed something to transport the message before my own blood was the only ink to write it in.

"I'm the messenger." He points to his front pocket. I inconspicuously look him up and down, check his form for any signs of a weapon when I take in his answer. That's it? That's what he wants to tell me? That he is a messenger? That much I have been able to assess already. Since his expression is completely neutral, except for the friendly or rather polite smile that's still in place, I put in all the effort I can muster not to burst out into relieved laughter about my own unfounded fears running away with me before.

"Your outfit somehow gave you away," spills out of my mouth though before I can contain it and just finally let the man take his leave. I mentally slap myself. There I am worrying about my life ending right here, and then I go all in and provoke the man with a smart-ass comment so he can change his mind and kill me right away after all. The street is still empty, too empty.

"_The_ messenger," he emphasizes to reinforce his former remark. There may be a hint of annoyance filtering into his voice now, as he gestures for me to take a closer look. Really, I don't need to inspect the guy's uniform. He expectantly looks at me. I don't get it. I lower my gaze to a small pin on his front pocket. It's a caduceus. My shoulders lift as I shrug. So what? He works as a paramedic as well maybe, or he's just a fan of medicine. Maybe he's a med student working in delivery to pay for his tuition.

"Gods!" He's rolling his eyes, annoyance blatant now. "Come on, I thought you were a little smarter, Richard. The Drachma. The book. The wand…," he lists and gestures wildly as if his rolling wrists could make me follow his entangled train of thoughts. I look down at the book. Greek myths, yeah. Some more Greek adding to the coin.

Wait, had he mentioned a Drachma? My head snaps up to look at him again. Weren't Drachmas ancient Greek coins? I'm pretty sure they were. My brows are deeply furrowed now. How can he know about the coin? Even if he watched me picking it up, he couldn't know it was a Drachma, he couldn't have seen it from his position. I dig my hand in my pocket again. There it is, still safely resting at the bottom of it. And then there is the caduceus. It can't be, can it? He's a courier, right? I shake my head, unwilling to draw the conclusion he obviously expects me to come to. But it does make sense in a strange kind of way, doesn't it?

"Hermes?" I manage to breathe out the ancient gods name as a tentative suggestion. It's just too weird to be true. After all, there are no gods.

He beams. Literally. I've got to shield my eyes from the blinding light he seems to emanate in response. Okay, obviously I've finally snapped, or the side effects of the drug are starting to show. When the rays dim to a manageable brightness, I lower my hand to openly stare at the UPS driver now. It seems my mind has run blank.

"I am, son," he confirms.


	2. Chapter 2

**Relations and Revelations**

All the usual disclaimers apply: I do not - not even intend to - make money with this.

**Part 2**

It feels like ages but it's probably a grand total of three seconds, five tops, that I stand there unmoving, too stunned about what the man, who obviously claims to be some sort of god, has said. He hasn't moved either, always keeps watching me as if he was expecting some kind of response. His expression consists of a constantly smiling mask though, which doesn't help me to decipher what's going on beneath the surface.

"I…" At least a word got out of my mouth, even though it wasn't more than a single letter word. This is just ridiculous. "You?" Good question, though it probably sounded anything but eloquent. "That…" A deep frown curves itself into my forehead at the third attempt as I need to admit that I've most obviously lost my magic. All words or at least sentences vanish into thin air before I can form them; build them into something that makes sense of all this. I turn to look around at the still completely empty street for the umpteenth time now. How come that in all this time – and I'm pretty sure we've been here for quite a while now – not a single soul passed by?

Maybe this was all a well orchestrated prank from the boys. Like back then, with the curse of the mummy. Yeah, that's definitely got to be it. It's the only valid explanation. But I couldn't think of a reason for Ryan and Esposito to pull something as big as this. True, we tease each other and pull practical jokes, but they usually are spontaneous on occasions that present themselves. But this – once again, I eye the guy suspiciously – this is perfect work. It must have taken a lot of time and effort to plan it all out. And probably quite a pile of money as well, which I guess the boys don't really have, or at least wouldn't waste on some short-lived entertainment like this one. Or would they?

It would be an easy thing to hire some actor to play this UPS guy. He actually even looks like he was an actor: too handsome to need to deliver parcels to make a living. Maybe it was even mother who picked him out. A smile crept onto my face at that thought. Yeah, mother would have easily managed to convince the young man to play this role, make it out to be some great and rewarding challenge to the poor guy. He was probably not only an admirer of her work, but a student in one of her classes as well. I've long lost track of all the students she had, so I wouldn't even know him. Another piece of evidence was that he indeed stood there still patiently smiling – or was it unnervingly neutral, annoyingly knowing – as if he was waiting for the next cue, while in the meantime all the audience got was some monologue from the lead character to present them with an impression about the way he's considering the current situation: classic. But then again, there isn't an audience, is it? And no monologue either, just minutes of awkward silence passing by while he obviously waits for me to decide on how to react, and my immediate response is to not really respond at all.

Without me noticing, the glowing must have faded in the meantime and was gone as if it had never occurred in the first place. I know what I had seen, though. How did they do it? I thought I knew roughly about state of the art in special effects, because really I wouldn't know what else to call it. The guy had appeared to shine like a light bulb. I always assumed effects like this one were added to the movie afterwards by the work of a brilliant tech department, but obviously the achievements of light and illumination engineering are far more advanced than I had expected.

My gaze once again takes in all surroundings, this time focusing on corners, bushes, lamp posts or any other location that projectors could have been attached to and hidden rather than the lack of people. Wait, is this maybe some candid camera thing? It doesn't really feel funny, well at least not literally funny: more like the weird kind of funny, but maybe from an outsider's point of view it could elicit some smiles. Do I have to smile myself though? How will Peter Funt comment on my reaction or the lack of it? I'd prefer Allen though, nothing can beat the original after all, not even the son.

The son. Son. Didn't he call me son before? Why would he do that? That was an eccentric term to use in these circumstances. It definitely ruled him out being the average fan, who usually doesn't go for calling me 'son' or using my given name. And wasn't he way too young to use that term on strangers anyway? It was more like something someone twice or maybe thrice his age would say: a father-in-law reassuring his daughter's new husband for instance, or using it sarcastically as he threatens him. Or the friendly old lady next door, that has known you ever since you were born, and still liked to offer you cookies when you came back from college to visit your mother. Or maybe the old, homeless guy at the pond in the park, who eagerly shares his wisdom with you even though you never asked. The claiming-to-be-a-Greek-god-UPS-guy doesn't match any of these descriptions. I carefully hide my interest as I look him over, again. No, I'm sure he really is young. He's got no wrinkles visible on his hands or neck, and there are also no signs that plastic surgery may have helped that impression. He couldn't be older than forty, tops. It was more likely he was around thirty. And his face even appeared younger at times.

"You're too young." When I hear my own voice blurting it out I can't help but be surprised that this statement is the first proper sentence leaving my mouth now. Doesn't really make me look like the smartest cookie in the jar, does it? I guess Gina would prefer the patient-zero-scenario now to watching this scene on TV. Even though she does quite enjoy having me squirm at times, the lines are being crossed when it comes to anything that may threaten the carefully created persona of Richard Castle. I decide to go with my most charming smile to turn it into a compliment rather than a confused declaration. If this doesn't help, maybe Paula can try to get a hold of the material; prevent it from making its way into the show at all. Who knows how much of candid camera material actually never got aired?

"Well, how old do you think I am?" A nervous tickling seems to crawl up and down my spine when my smile is perfectly mirrored by the other man's. He isn't flirting with me, is he? Wouldn't be the first time, but I don't know if I can deal with that right now. I stare into his blue eyes, my smile already slipping. Maybe we'll make some progress if I play along and answer.

"35?" I tentatively ask, bracing for offence or any other reaction but am blown away as he bursts into bubbling laughter instead, the only reaction I would not have expected. Yeah, of course I'm only joking. I join in laughing and try to not make it sound insecure or puzzled or anything that would show how lost I am here. 'Just play along,' I remind myself.

"Add a couple of zeros and we'll get there," he responds then, not laughing any more but back to his former smile though.

"That's too old then," I grin, maybe a little boldly. If he wasn't an actor he'd seriously have some mental problems, considering he truly believes in that he is a god. Couldn't be good for his health if someone acts on such premises. Maybe I should take him to Lanie with me, better get us both checked. Maybe he is a patient in an asylum who escaped, managed to hijack this truck, and is now talking to strangers in the world his brain is making him believe to be real. Uh, he didn't hurt the driver to get his uniform, did he? Maybe it's even better to take him to the precinct than to Lanie. The guys can surely find out if somebody is looking for him. He doesn't look mentally unstable though. He is nothing like the crackpots shown on TV or in the movies. He's actually pretty convincing, except for the Hermes-thing. And the smiley poker face that's slowly creeping me out.

"Really? You manage to believe in the existence of Sasquatch, ghosts, mummy curses and even aliens, but you deny the possibility of this being real although you can see me, hear me?" the man cuts into my thoughts.

"Well, working for the police I learned to trust in hard evidence rather than what people say or some meager circumstantial proof," as soon as the words have left my mouth I imagine the lovely sound of Beckett's laugh at my statement as she would point out that it was usually me who brought up crazy ideas without having evidence to prove it. But this guy doesn't have to know that. And mentioning my connection to the police was a deliberate act as well. It couldn't be wrong to warn him: what he was up against, if he were to try something. Although by now I can tell that he doesn't want to harm me, at least not yet.

He keeps smiling neutrally as he denies giving me any kind of response. Maybe I once again pushed too far. It's about time I changed course. Calling the guys wouldn't be wrong, would it? But where is my phone? Patting down my pockets I have to realize it's gone or wasn't there at all. But I wouldn't leave the house without my cell. Never. Well, except for that one time but that was… that is so not important now. No phone then.

I catch myself backing away a little as the man reaches for his front pocket while rolling his eyes. But all he takes out is a golden glistening pen. Even though it's called a writer's sword, there's no need to feel threatened by it. At least not until the moment he presses its top without it resulting in the typical annoying clicking, but a jumbled noise of whooshing and metallic rattling as the pen extends and unfolds into a way bigger version of the caduceus than the tiny pin he pointed out before.

"Better?" he asks me. I can't help but stare at the wand. It's definitely the most sophisticated piece of prop I've ever seen, so steam punky as well and it may rival the pen of a certain British spy. Wait, there's something. Is it moving? Although it looks like it was made of solid metal, the snakes appear to shake their tails, wiggling them around the center stick. But it's the wings that draw both of our attention, not only by the slight movement of the single feathers, blown at by the soft morning breeze, but by a way more obvious motion going through the caduceus.

"Whoa, stop it," the man - maybe really Hermes after all? - demands as the wand flaps its wings, in fact flaps them, trying to take off, but calming down immediately at the sound of its master's voice. My left hand already reaches out for the shining wand all of my attention completely focused on, leaving me without the ability to control my actions. It's the snakes that get me mesmerized obviously; the shining surface of their skin looks metallic, but the slightly rocking movement of back and forth indicates that they're alive at the same time. I can almost touch them, can already anticipate the feeling of it prickling at my fingertips when suddenly one of the snakes turns to me, hissing, and its head darts at me before I have a chance to react.

"No!" the man, who has a tight hold on the wand, exclaims in a high pitched tone, which successfully startles me as well as the snake. He pulls the wand back quickly and it immediately shrinks to its former size as I catch the quickly fading expression of horror on his face. I have to blink repeatedly before I manage to turn away from the now restored pen that he slips back into his front pocket. You'd never suspect the tiny object to do something like that. Sure the unfolding and refolding made it appear like some trick, but the movements have looked so real as though it was alive.

"You must not touch it," his voice still sounds a little higher than before as he shoots me a pointed look. No touching. I get it. I'm never allowed to touch anything. Okay, now I sound like a pouting child. "Not without my permission. It can be deadly to mortal beings," he explains.

My eyes are drawn to the cover of the book I'm still keeping hold of with my right hand. The picture shows the mythological figure of Icarus who, against his father's warnings, flew too high and finally crashed into the ocean because the sun melted away the wax holding together his wings.

Is it true then? It's too weird to be true. But honestly, it's even too weird to be totally made up. He doesn't look like the paintings and statues and illustrations depicting Hermes I've seen before. My eyes flicker to his feet. Shouldn't there be sandals and wings attached to them? Instead he wears sneakers that look as if they would fall from his feet at any time.

"Looking for wings?" he smirks as he raises an eyebrow.

Obviously. "The statues and paintings, the myths," I explain.

"Artistic license," he offers, shrugging. "Thought you were familiar with the concept." Yeah, sure. After all, this wasn't anything like the stories that probably also filled the pages of the book in my hand. I am still trying to wrap my mind around what's happening. I'm talking to a god, who's clad like a UPS delivery guy. He is a god, in point of fact. Guess he's finally convinced me on that one. This realization comes with a whole tail of questions, each one bringing a bundle of new ones into the patchwork on its own, cramming my mind to no extend and elbowing their way through to the surface, fighting hard to get my attention.

He is a god, for god's sake. Or gods' sakes? He really doesn't look like one, though. Does this mean there are more of them; other gods as well? For real? Only the Greek ones or others too? Does this mean, artistic license aside, that all those stories are true? Who would have thought? And then there is the ever popular question that's always burning, waiting behind every corner I round, the one that seems to lead me in a strange way through all of my life actually: why? Why do I get to experience…. this, this encounter? Why now? Why meet Hermes? Why don't they reveal themselves to someone who actually could promote their existence? Why don't they show themselves to people who actually believe in gods and myths and all this stuff? Why the hell does he wear beige shorts? Ok, that's not quite as important, but is he actually an employee of UPS? Do gods need jobs as well? If not, why should he have one or dress up like he had one? The packet, right? He gave it to me. Is it some kind of message? From another god? Or a goddess maybe? Uh, I like that idea. Why give me a children's book on myths? What does it mean? There has to be a chain of events that explains all of this. There surely is some story to answer these questions. If anything, this I have to know. I made up my mind, I will not, I cannot, leave without knowing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Relations and Revelations**

All the usual disclaimers apply: I do not – not even intend to – make money with this.

**Part 3**

It still all boils down to the one central question -why? Stuffed into this single word, I throw all of the growing and developing instead of dissolving confusion at the person in front of me, a god, which is hard to comprehend while he just looks like anybody. I can only hope for straight answers this time, since he seems to have the habit of providing vague and cryptic statements instead.

"It's complicated."

I almost huff at his words. Of course it is, but doesn't mean I have to accept it, do I? My life is already over-supplied with complicated issues, so I'd rather decline this one. 'Uncomplicate it for me!' the demand burns on the tip of my tongue, but I guess it's not the ideal way to address a deity. "Huh?" it is then.

"We're not supposed to have this conversation, Richard."

So? And more importantly: why not?

"Let's just say, it's not that easy any more to foster relationships with mortal beings, even when you are close." That just doesn't add anything to enlighten me. My dissatisfaction must have been obvious. He's probably more talkative than usual. Still: why?

"We – I'm - not allowed to contact you." Great, what an effervescent source of clarity he is. Does he mean 'you' as in all human beings or 'you' as in me, Richard Castle?

"But you did?" I can't help but ask. Why? I feel like a four year old, but I really don't get it, and it's slowly but surely giving me a headache.

"Actually…," instead of completing the statement to, for once, give an explanation, he points to my pocket, the one with the coin, I realize. The Drachma?

"…I may not be known to obey all the rules to the letter," he prompts, grinning lopsidedly. "Runs in the family, obviously," he adds, grinning even more widely as if it was some reference I should get. What do I know about his family? Not that much, do I?

"I just wanted you to have this…," his tone is serious, as his expression morphs back to the neutral, noncommittal mask of a smile from before. I'm eying the book again. He wants me to have it, a book about heroes and demi-gods in Greek myths.

"… and give you some fatherly advice, Richard." he adds. Fatherly advice, huh? _'I am, son,'_ his former statement invades my thoughts, as well as the mentioning of '_family'_ and _'close relations'_ and… he can't be serious, can he?

"You meant it before? You want to tell me that I'm your son?" my voice practically climbing a whole octave at the last word. I didn't mean it so sound that squeaky and shocked.

"Well yes, but that's not what I'm talking about now…" he trails off, obviously recognizing the doubt in my eyes. He must be kidding me.

"Oh, will you just believe me? We don't have forever for this," annoyance and impatience paint his tone. I don't want to enrage a god, do I? Especially not the one who obviously claims to having fathered me. A god, Hermes, actually acknowledges that he is my father. You don't hear that every day. As hard as it was to believe before, this is just too much, can't be true. Only moments ago, there weren't even any gods, and now one is my father? Readers would never buy that kind of twist. It lacks every kind of logic, especially since there were no indications beforehand which could help to support the theory. Maybe as a kid I would have made something up like this, but even back then, I'd usually preferred spy stories.

"Aren't you known to be a trickster-god?" I argue. I've long outgrown the need for a father figure, but I don't like the way he uses me being fatherless to what…? What's in it for him? A good laugh? Probably. Back to pranks we are then.

"I know it's a lot to comprehend," he admits. The understatement of the century! "Martha even named you after me, you know?" he adds after a moment of silence as if that would explain anything, but it doesn't. I really can't find any similarities in terms of naming here.

"Richard?" I ask, quirking an eyebrow skeptically.

"No, the one you so readily got rid of. Well, at least Alexander is the name I gave her back then before…" he seems to hesitate. Ick! No, these are some mental pictures I surely can do without. I can't hold back a disgusted shiver. He shakes his head and I like to think I've spotted a brief expression of thoughtfulness, maybe even nostalgia, behind his mostly neutral mask. I guess he is considering something, and I'm getting antsy now. I wish he would just say whatever he wants to say so I can go back to my usual complicated life, and start to block out this little whatever we're having here.

"Not that one. I'm talking about what happened afterwards." Ok? "When I found out about you, I didn't want to hide it anymore, but the family wasn't quite pleased with your mother being an actress."

My eyes widen at his statement. Was he trying to tell me that I wasn't welcome just because my mother was an actress? Sure, you wonder why your father didn't stick around long enough for you to know him. I had always been comforted by the fact that he hadn't even known about me, that my mother wasn't able to tell him about my existence. But he is a god. He knew all along. And this, what he is saying, simply isn't acceptable. A churning and all consuming feeling settles in my guts and starts spreading from there. Anger. I straighten my posture and school my expression. I'm used to handling rejection. I would turn away but I still have to know, especially now. Why the hell did he come to tell me all of this?

"Your uncle wasn't pleased," he seems to feel the need to elaborate, maybe wants to answer my unvoiced questions. "He was so not pleased at all that I had approached one of his charges. So the question of how to deal with the consequences caused some..." Was 'the messenger' looking for a fitting term? "Well, it caused disturbances. It really wasn't very pretty. And she was so talented, a rising star, with a great career just about laid out in front of her. I couldn't take that away." Was he rambling?

"Anyway, to preserve peace and order we were eventually asked to come to an agreement. He won't turn his back on her as long as I stay away. I'm not going to go into details now, since as I explained before, we're actually not supposed to have this conversation at all."

I guess my look can only be described as being dumbfounded when I stare at him speechlessly, only to recall what I'm facing here: in front of me stands a Greek god, Hermes. He claims not only to be my father, but also that he abandoned me because of jealousy issues a brother of his - another god obviously, considering his mention of her profession maybe Apollon as the master of the muses, or Dionysos maybe? - may have had because of my mother. Well, his story for sure fits into the image of your usual Greek myth. But who would have thought about putting mother or me into the role of supporting characters in such a narrative? I would never ever have fabricated something unbelievable like this. Does mother know about it? I discard that thought with a slight shake of my head. The way I know my mother, she would never let go of the opportunity to bring something like this up at least once, even if it was only in jest. And if she didn't learn about it, if he never told her, then why tell me? Why now?

"Wait, does that make me immortal or something?" I can't help but ask. Suddenly, excitement wriggles its way into this mess, creating a completely new set of questions. There was plenty of stuff one could do with that kind of life expectancy, everything actually. That definitely changes perspectives. Oh wow, one day I could be the one who had experienced what will be history then, it will be a little bit like time travelling.

"No." Just no? Maybe invincible then? That sounds reasonable, considering all the times I actually shouldn't have come out alive at the face of hazardous situations, just like David Dunn in the movie. It may not have been a train accident or something, but there were always the occasional gun-fights, Beckett's burning apartment, a locked freezer, a dirty bomb and plenty of other opportunities for the Grim Reaper to make his call. But we've survived all of them in the end.

"Invincible?" therefore drops off my tongue, immediately followed by him shaking his head.

"Nope." Ok, I suppose I would have discovered that earlier if it had been true. If I was honest, I'd contracted enough injuries to rule that one out on my own.

"Maybe some special skills," I muse. Flying, yes. He's Hermes so it's got to be flying, doesn't it? That's so cool.

"You're not a superhero, Richard." I know, but wouldn't it be cool? After all what's the sense in learning your father is a god, a real actual god – I still can't quite wrap my mind around it - if you don't get something from that?

"Well, it's making me a demi-god, right?" 'Your ego didn't need anything more to finally take off, did it, Castle?' Oops, since when has the voice of reason that is meant to ground me, started to sound like Beckett? I hush it immediately, instead waiting for an answer from my visitor. If this turns out to be the previously suspected show – because it's still too crazy - and the hidden cameras will be pointed out to me shortly, then I'll at least relish every minute of it.

"Technically," he's tilting his head to both of his sides vaguely. So that's a yes? "But one needs to earn his place among the heroes, needs to give proof that he is worth it," he explains. Fair enough.

"Funny to hear that from the guy, who proclaimed himself to be an Olympian god." The corners of my lips quirk into a grin as I dig out my share of knowledge on Greek mythology.

"So there's at least something there on classical education." He nods appreciatively, and as it seems yet again mirrors my smile. I still don't get it though. What would be the point in being a god's offspring if there wasn't anything special about it.

"But be sure, you have always and will always be in my favor, if you give me the chance." Ok, that's just nothing. What favor would that be? He must have seen my skeptical look because for once he added something to his statement.

"You should be aware of the fact that you are a lucky man, Richard. In fact, one may say that you're someone whose dreams usually come true," he pauses as my mind is flooded with all the images of things I never managed to achieve despite all my efforts, crowned by the less than spectacular but nonetheless most precious idea of having a plain and normal family, which I neither grew up in nor managed to provide my own daughter with. My frown apparently gives my doubts away.

"It's actually the reason for this," Hermes gestures between the two of us. "You have to take chances, Richard," he remarks emphatically. My frown only deepens. Really? Maybe he doesn't know that much about my life after all. "I can only grant you luck if you let me," the man adds.

"I do," I counter, mentally going through all the situations I've risked not only money or some other material good but even life itself: it's what comes with being the partner of a cop. And I've actually done pretty well, haven't I? At least, I'm still here. He obviously doesn't agree with me, and shakes his head vigorously as if he was trying to forget just how stupid I am.

"I don't talk about jumping head first into every dicey situation present, but about risking yourself; put your whole self on the line when needed. You seem to have forgotten how to do it, and I can't let that happen," he prompts.

What does he mean then? I quickly try to shove away the image of Beckett that seems to suddenly have taken over my mind. After all, she perfectly epitomizes risking oneself in every way in a professional context on one hand, and not risking oneself when it comes to your personal life on the other. She's shown plenty of that, of running and hiding instead of confronting a situation that might end up hurtful. She hasn't rubbed off on me, has she? She's got her reasons though, as annoying and maddening as it may be. I know that. And I've taken her hints that she's trying. Well, at least I suppose that's what she was talking about at the swing set. I'm about to go over the conversation when he cuts into my thoughts, drawing my attention again.

"It's good to be patient, Richard, but it must not lead you to miss out on your chance of happiness. As I said, you need to take chances," he smiles knowingly. Maybe he's guessed what I was thinking about. Does he know? What is he suggesting?

"I do. I did," I once again reinforce. I told her about my feelings, didn't I? But she doesn't remember, and that's probably for the best. Hermes seems to disagree as he shakes his head. Does he think I'm not forward enough on the issue? Well, then he may not know Beckett after all. It's like dancing on thin ice with her, one wrong move and your lungs fill with water before you know it. It's been years and I'm still trying to figure her out, causing all too many cracks on my way. Sometimes, it was better to stay close to the banks even though you know that you can't show the most delicate figures there. Did I just go for an ice dancing metaphor here? More importantly, is he right and I'm too afraid to risk what I have for what we could have? I know we could be amazing together, I've already seen glimpses of that. But I do also have a summer full of experience to know what it would mean if it doesn't work out. We'd crash and burn, no survivors. Am I holding back because of that? Am I too afraid to lose what little we have to aim for more than just friendship? Am I wrong about her? Would she take the leap with me? What if she laughs at me; presents another secret lover like she did last year with Dr. Motorcycle Boy, who seemed to appear out of nowhere. What if it's serious this time? I don't know if I would be willing to take that. I would probably need to walk away for good.

"You have to gamble at high stakes to gain the best things in life. Better start remembering that and keep it in mind, Richard," he's trying to give me a lecture consisting of nothing but cliches obviously, and my eyebrow twitches skeptically. There may be some truth to it, but nonetheless the speech wasn't anything but annoying.

"Remember that luck usually smiles at you and have faith. You can't go wrong then. Better you lose high than you don't take the chance to win at all." I'm almost growling at him as he throws all those statements out like some mediocre guidebook. He obviously notices my dismay since he adds: "It may sound like a bunch of hollow phrases, but it isn't if you consider your relatives." And now we're back to riddles again, followed by some moments of silence. It now appears he has nothing more to say, and somehow I'd lost the desire to dig for more answers to all of my questions. It'll already take a lot of time to process what I learned today anyway.

We only stare at each other for some time until Hermes starts for a retreat: "You've got to go now but we'll stay in touch, Richard," he assures me, and for a moment his neutral smile seems to grow warmer. I wouldn't call it affectionate, but it's definitely pleasant.

"How?" it's out, even before I'm aware of the question crossing my mind.

"The Drachma, and crossroads," he responds and adds with a crooked smile, "I wouldn't mind a prayer every now and then though, and some offerings. I do appreciate some good booze after all. Honey and incense as well, money of course. And don't forget to take chances, son." The gravely uttered reminder is the last thing I hear as his glowing form dissolves, my vision rapidly starts to blur and I start to feel all dazed and confused, losing my orientation.

"Castle!" a familiar voice filters through the fog that has captured my mind, as a thick yet strangely comforting absence of light.

"Hey Castle, are you sleeping?" It's Beckett. I blink a few times before I realize that I'm actually sitting in the passenger seat of her Crown Vic. I remember. I must have dozed off when my body took over to fulfill its needs to make up for the radically shortened night. I must have been dreaming. It was just my very imaginative writer's mind putting together a harebrained story to entertain me when I slumped into the seat after visiting a crime scene in the wee hours of the morning. Should I be relieved or disappointed about that?

She's looking at me. Obviously she has been talking to me, too. I catch anger and amusement fighting with each other in her eyes. The corner of her lips may even twitch, nearly imperceptibly. And there is something else in her expression as well, something I can't quite decipher and don't even get the chance to since she averts her gaze quickly, concentrating her attention on the early morning traffic again as the lights change and she slowly puts pressure on the gas. A soft smile settles on my lips as I watch her. She unconsciously brushes away a stray lock tangling on her cheek. It must have escaped the messy bun she'd gathered her hair into before arriving at the scene. Eyes still on the traffic, her hand reaches out to the cup holder where she takes the coffee cup from that I brought along. A frustrated groan escapes her lips as she realizes that there's no more coffee left. I guess she's not any less tired than I am, especially since she'd stayed at the precinct to get her paperwork done last night when I had already bailed out. What would she say if I told her about my dream? How would she react to my story about a riddle-filled daydream of a god telling me to not waste any more time? But maybe it's less about the messenger than the message itself.

"Kate?" Maybe I am still too drowsy and my filters aren't quite in place, but I only realize which name I used to address her when she turns her head and frowns at me. Now I have to be careful in what I say.

I'm still looking for the words to either say something important, letting her know that I'd like to talk afterwards, or try to backpedal while I still can, when a movement behind her form catches my eyes. It's not unusual, but right now the hint of beige I spot through the window on the driver's side startles me. It's the UPS truck. Well, it's at least one of these, parked at the curb near the crossing. A man gets out and lifts a hand to his head, directly looking me in the eye, or so it seems. I've already waved back before I know it. I know him. It's him.

But everything was just a dream, vivid, yes, but still a dream. That's what it was, wasn't it? No matter how real it still feels, it wasn't actual Hermes visiting me in a small moment of falling asleep, was it? Maybe? If I was to put my hand into my pocket, I surely wouldn't find the Drachma there.

Would I?


End file.
